Of Silent Wars

Drip drip drip – it roars

From the quarter-closed rust tap

Like small silent wars.




Daily Chores

With the depth of my fingers,
I trace lines of thoughts mid-air,
As my thought-police slides its tail
between the legs and escapes.
With the breadth of my fingers
I broaden the resonance of my words.
With the tip, I dig and clean.
With the strength of my fingers
I lift the empty bucket heavy with
Imagined mishappenings –
Out it goes through the window;
With the pain in my fingers,
I write happy verse of sadness.
With the force in my fingers,
I hit the dough and push through the crowd.
With my fingers, I do my daily chores,
And with its lightness, I glide.

To My Love

The day has gone; the night sings to me
On the sill I sit, patiently.

Moonface sucks her thumb – up any minute now
Yellow tresses of worrying stresses – holes with empty dancing laces.

Lover dear – my believer, my trust, my lone rock
On quivering lips laced with assuring knock
Voice dipped in tea, voiceless in sea,
Everlasting love, I write to thee.